Iím frantic. The blood within my veins is rushing to my head. I can barely see straight as I scamper about with lightning speed to ready my house.

Iím panting. Droplets of sweat emerge and dampen my brow as I hasten to tidy this and straighten that; to clean up this and arrange that.

Iím terrified. My guest is about to arrive. He said Heíd be back any day at any hour, but with His extended absence my house managed to find itself in quite a mess of neglect:my clothes are stained and unwashed; thereís a rank stench exuding from the piles of garbage Iíve ignored; suitcases of stored up baggage crowd out the inner closets of my rooms; and families of roaches adorn my ceilings, drawers, and stove. I have no meal prepared to satisfy my Masterís hunger upon His arrival-all my wine has been drunk by other guests who have precariously been offered entrance to my house.

Iím undone. In part I want to flop on the coach and give up; to just allow the Master to come to His house and see what a wreck of chaos itís become.
But I fear His wrath and I long for His companionship. Such a Man of high regard as He is unable to dwell in the midst of the filth that I have become accustomed to; He maintains no problem visiting me regardless of the state of my home, but this time He says He is coming to dwell with me-and my house must be clean.

I rise again. Thereís so much to be done. His arrival is at midnight and itís ten to the hour! If only I had washed my garments in His blood! If only I had not hidden the dirt under the rugs! If only daily I had refused to rest my head for the night until I had cleaned up the mess I made when I was awake! If only I had saved some wine for the One who I claimed my soul desired, rather than squandering it on the appetites of many other loversÖif only I had lived as though any moment He would arrive to be joined to my side as my Bridegroom, my Spouse.

Itís five to the hour; the oil in my lamp is out; I would have rose earlier to clean this evening, but I had fallen asleep drunk from too much freedom-my will has known no master but itís own.
I cringe and wonder if Heíll be Peace to me. If I plead for mercy will He grant it? If I weep and holler will He relent from wrath? If I repent for my negligence will He pardon my complacency? Or is it too late to be saved?

I see His shadow alighting through the night sky; coming upon those transparent clouds that reveal to the world that He the Christ is God. He arrives at my door, the door of my home; before He knocks the question looms in my mind, ďIs my home even His anymore?Ē

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I like this. There have been quite a few stories or analogies of Jesus knocking at the door this week, but yours does stand out in a vivid way. I could so picture the baggage scattered about and almost smell the rotting garbage. I think this was a clever take on the subject and you made me stop and think about my spiritual home too.